


All the Difference

by rosa_himmelblau



Category: Starsky & Hutch, Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:05:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9664640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: Here's an interesting thought.  Roger was in the military.  And Starsky was in the military.





	

Something was wrong with Lococco.

The sergeant was sure of it; Lococco had been brooding and aloof for some time now. He'd gone off on his three-day pass like he was being sent to the firing squad and come back acting as though someone had shot his dog. No—as if he'd shot his own dog, as penance for something.

He had tried to talk to the captain about it, but as usual Ketcher had brushed him off. "I know my men, Starsky. Lococco's fine. Probably just too much time with some local girl and now he thinks he's in love." The way he said it telegraphed to Starsky that he knew more than he was telling, and that even though he was trying to hide it, he also **wanted** Starsky to know that he knew things he wasn't saying. Ketcher had a pathetic need to draw attention to himself, and as a result, he acted as though the Pentagon whispered its secrets to him and him alone, and while they **were** secrets, the light of this great honor shone forth from him in a way he was powerless to suppress.

He could have made himself a halo out of cardboard and aluminum foil, it would have been more convincing, at least to Starsky.

Problem was, Starsky was feeling like the kid in the crowd watching the emperor walk down the street buck naked, only there was nobody he could say it to. Undermining the authority of a superior officer was the sort of thing the military frowned upon, and even if it wasn't, he was having trouble figuring out what he would accomplish if he did. Pissing off Ketcher wouldn't do anybody any good. Even if he could get everyone else to see he was a—

A what? A smarmy little nothing? Then what? The military was full of guys who thought they were gods because of the uniforms they were wearing. Yeah, and Starsky had run into his share, but he'd never had this feeling before, this unease that wouldn't go away. What kept going through his mind, over the top and completely unreasonable, was, _Hitler was a smarmy little nothing and look what **he** did._ Captain Ketcher was not Adolf Hitler. But thinking about him gave Starsky a similar queasy, helpless feeling. And while Hitler was dead, Ketcher slept spitting distance from Starsky.

"You're out of your mind. You know, that, right?" Even though he was alone, Starsky said the words under his breath; he tried not to talk to himself aloud; it spooked the men.

All right, so he was crazy. But like the man said, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you. Being crazy didn't mean he was wrong; what he had to do was be logical about this. Something's wrong really didn't cut it, Starsky needed to isolate just **what** was wrong, if he was going to have any chance at fixing it . . . whatever **it** was.

Friday night Roger Lococco had gone into town in a state of suppressed agitation. He'd come back Sunday afternoon in a blue funk. Roger Lococco was one of Herb Ketcher's special cadre, one of the Chosen. He'd been spending a lot of time with Ketcher, and Starsky had seen what looked like pep talks. 

Since he'd come back to camp, Lococco had been avoiding Ketcher. What the fuck had Ketcher had Lococco do?

The possibilities creeped Starsky out.

There was something very wrong with Ketcher's relationship with his Chosen ones. It gave Starsky a bad feeling. It wasn't just that they were so gung-ho it hurt to look at them, or that they seemed to have some kind of deliberately set distance between themselves and the rest of the unit. There was something warped about it. It wasn't a sexual thing, but it was something nearly as intense, something Ketcher used to manipulate them. They seemed to belong to him.

_Maybe you're jealous._ Maybe he was; that kind of loyalty was certainly enviable. But Starsky didn't think that was it. Whatever loyalty the men had to Starsky, he used it to keep them together as a unit, to keep them alive. Ketcher seemed to have something else in mind, and Starsky didn't know what it was, and he couldn't think of anything. _What, do you think he's going to start his own army?_ No, but—

No. But. He was doing **something.**

_Does it concern **you**?_ This was his mother's voice, the one who admired his desire to make the world a better place, but was pragmatic enough (and loved him enough) to try to keep him from skinning his knuckles too often fighting fights he couldn't win. He didn't know if this concerned him or not. Working under Ketcher, Starsky had learned to focus only on what was good for the unit. Fighting that fight might be unwinnable, but fighting any other fight was downright naive. And if there was anything David Starsky wasn't, it was naïve.

Still. He hated like hell the idea of standing by and watching Ketcher take Lococco down.

"She's alive, isn't she?" Ketcher's voice, not far away. Starsky froze, even though he wasn't doing anything, just sitting in the mess holding a cup of coffee. He couldn't understand the answer, but the voice was Lococco's. "She should be glad she's alive. Probably grateful to you. You go back next week, you'll see."

Again, Lococco's answer was too low to get. "Stop whining about this." Ketcher's voice was sharp, impatient.

"Yes, sir." The words were correct, but Lococco's voice was shattered. Starsky went back to his lukewarm coffee.  
*  
Roger was drunk.

It was strictly forbidden. Oh, they could drink, drinking was fine, but Captain Ketcher did not allow his group to lose control in any way. _Whose control?_ Roger wondered, and pushed that thought away. Heresy. You went to hell for thinking things like that.

If you weren't in hell already.

Preet had had a lovely voice, sweet and melodic. She had been teaching him the language, fine-tuning what he already knew so he could speak like a native instead of a Berlitz course graduate.

The voice would be the same, but the words were gone. "No more words," Roger said to himself. "No more words."

Roger didn't know how he had been able to do it. How Preet had been able to let him do it, or why. The last word she had said was his name, and even though she knew what he was about to do, she had said it with love. It defied all reason.

Sergeant Starsky was looking at him. Roger could see him in the mirror behind the bar. Ketcher had told them to stay away from Starsky, he wasn't one of them. Roger didn't know what he meant by that, but he wondered how Starsky had got so lucky, to avoid being one of the few, the proud, the dumbasses. No, wait, that was the marines. Ketcher's men weren't few or proud, they were just dumbasses.

Roger should have moved away when Starsky came to sit next to him, but at that moment the last thing he wanted to be was one of "them," whoever the hell "them" was. 

"You all right?" Starsky asked, not looking at him. He acted as though they were being watched. They probably were.

"Just fine, Sarge, just fine," Roger drawled at him, the way he always drawled when he spoke to someone outside Ketcher's group, as if there was nothing in his head and never would be, so there was no point knocking on his door.

"Yeah." Starsky finished his beer. "G'Night, Lococco."

"Why don't you have another one?" Roger asked. He didn't know why he asked; it wasn't as if he was going to talk to Starsky. Starsky had been just about to get up; now he resettled on his barstool and signaled for another beer.

He was patient, Roger had to give him that. They sat there for nearly an hour, both of them nursing beers, not speaking. Finally, just for something to say, Roger asked, "Where you from, Sarge?"

"Brooklyn," Starsky answered.

"That's in New York, right?" Roger asked. It was a joke, sort of; it wasn't really anything, just a drunken inanity that came out of his mouth. Starsky laughed, though.

"Right." After a moment, Starsky asked, "Where're you from?"

"Nowhere," Roger answered. "Nowhere, Tennessee."

"Think I've heard of it," Starsky said, which made Roger laugh, which amazed him. He hadn't counted on ever laughing again in this life.

"You wanna shoot some pool?" Roger asked. Who cared who might be looking, what were they going to see? What were they going to do? Tell Captain Ketcher? And then what? He was fucking playing pool with a superior officer, not telling military secrets to a spy. Fuck Ketcher.

They played pool. Roger played badly because he kept seeing two of every ball and he couldn't hold his stick steady. Starsky played well, probably because he'd spent his childhood in all those famous pool halls on all those famous street corners in New York. He won quietly, though; he didn't crow about it.

"You always this bad?" Starsky asked, but not nasty. Roger laughed and dropped his stick.

"No, I was trying to impress you." And Starsky laughed.

"Wanna go outside for a smoke?" Not that there was any reason to go outside except for some privacy. Roger had no problem with that.

Outside it was muggy. They stood side by side against the wall, smoking, not talking. Then Starsky asked, "Are you all right?"

God, no. "Except for being here? Doing fine."

Starsky didn't believe him, but he said, "Good."

They were alone in the dark. Roger had never felt more alone in his life. He reached out, touched Starsky's neck briefly. His fingers came back with sweat on them, and he brought them to his lips, tasted salt. Starsky put his hand on the back of Roger's neck and moved their faces close, brushed Roger's lips with his. That was all. Roger took a drag on his cigarette, watched Starsky walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> At one point I seemed to be in a highly susceptible frame of mind; people would unknowingly suggest stories to me & I would write them. When I realized what was happening, I actively solicited story ideas, which resulted in exactly two suggestions. This is the one that turned into something. Thanks go to K. M. Anderson.


End file.
